


Take Me Out To The Ball Game

by OnYourMark



Category: White Collar
Genre: Baseball, Blow Jobs, M/M, Multi, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnYourMark/pseuds/OnYourMark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We can have sex anytime. The Yankees play the Cubs three times a year. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Out To The Ball Game

It wasn't a _fantasy_ , exactly. It wasn't something he'd ask for, something he'd even think to ask for. Peter didn't like to use people, and it felt like it was...using, more than playing.

It made it easier if he blamed it on Neal (it was his fault anyway). Not that it was difficult! Not that he didn't like it! Just...

Peter knew how to handle Neal, most of the time. But he was a Good Catholic Boy at heart and always would be, lapse and maturity notwithstanding. Sex wasn't easy to talk about, let alone feel indulgent about. It had taken him most of his college years even to feel like he could enjoy it.

Neal was just _better_ at this than he was.

\---

It really was Neal's fault. Well, mostly. Elizabeth was out of town, so it was a little bit her fault too, because Peter didn't like to be alone in the house. It always felt too big without Elizabeth there. So while she was moving around the bedroom on Friday morning (packing) and Peter was sitting in bed (working) and Neal was drowsing naked nearby (tempting) she'd made Neal promise he'd stay the weekend, keep Peter company and out of trouble.

"Keep me out of trouble?" Peter asked, eyebrows raised. Neal slunk across the bed and rested his head in the curve of Peter's bent leg, hair messy and soft from sleep.

"Well, honey, you'll keep Neal out of trouble without being asked," Elizabeth said, folding a skirt and placing it carefully in the suitcase. "Neal needs very specific instructions."

"I do," Neal said, blue eyes wide and just a little too innocent.

"You think I'm falling for that line?" Peter asked, looking down at him.

"Probably not," Neal admitted, rolling off the bed. He kissed Elizabeth on his way to get dressed. "I will, though."

"And remember you promised to scrub the patio chairs and weed the rose bed," Elizabeth added. He didn't remember promising to do that, but "remember you promised" was something he never argued with Elizabeth about. Besides, it had sat out all winter and did need to be scrubbed; summer was here at last, so it was past time to clean the patio furniture in preparation for grill parties and lazy late evenings.

So it was a little bit Elizabeth's fault, and anyway if she hadn't been understanding and way more comfortable talking about sex and also kind of pushy, Neal never would have ended up in their bed to begin with (another story, for another time).

\---

Friday was fine. Elizabeth got off to the airport and called to say she'd landed safely; Neal cracked a fraud case without breaking a sweat and Jones brought the perps down without drawing his gun. It was a _good day_ , and he got to take the free case box home to find a new case for Monday full of excitement and puzzles to solve.

That was where it started being Neal's fault.

"Hey," Neal said, as they sat at the dining-room table eating take-away. "Why don't you tie me up tonight?"

Peter choked on his curry. "What?"

Neal shrugged. "You know me, I'm a handful," he said with a sly look. "Usually Elizabeth's around to help. Me on my own, you might want to -- "

"I'm -- do you..." Peter furrowed his brow. "Look, this whole..."

"Threesome," Neal said helpfully.

"...thank you, has it maybe given you an inflated opinion of my..."

"Your what?" Neal asked. "Because I've seen you naked, and my opinion is high, but not inflated."

"Permissiveness," Peter said finally.

He could see Neal catch his laughter and hide it away before it got out.

"Kink," Neal said. "Say it with me: kink."

"Okay, well, you know, I'm not...like that," Peter said, waving his fork dismissively, hoping that would end the conversation. Neal tilted his head a little, put down his silverware, and slid out of his seat, coming around the table and kneeling next to Peter's chair. He was still tall enough Peter only had to bend a little to kiss him -- garlic, curry spice, a hint of the wine he was drinking.

"We don't have to," Neal said.

"I don't get why you'd want to," Peter replied. Who wanted to be tied up ever, let alone during sex? You missed all the best parts that way.

Didn't you?

"I just like it, that's all." Neal gave him a shrug. "I like ordinary stuff too. It's not a big deal."

"Okay then," Peter said, going for take 2 on the theme of End This Incredibly Awkward Conversation. Neal got up off his knees.

"Don't tell me you don't enjoy handcuffing me, though," he said, returning to his seat. His smile was light, teasing, and one of the many Peter catalogued under "Con Man Smiles" rather than "Real Neal Smiles".

"Different reasons entirely," Peter grunted, and Neal changed the subject to a dissection of the afternoon's takedown.

\---

He thought about it some, that night, especially when Neal kept being god damned _difficult_ in bed, until Peter finally did lose a little control and pinned him down by the wrists. Neal arched and moaned and Peter stared at his hands in horror and jerked them back.

"Why'd you stop?" Neal asked. "I was enjoying that."

Peter sat up, rubbing the knuckles of one hand against the palm of the other. Neal gave him a knowing look and reached up to grab Peter's fingers, pulling them back down to where they'd been, sliding his hands through Peter's grasp until he was holding his wrists again.

"You're not hurting me," Neal said. "If I want you to stop, I'll tell you."

Peter had to admit it was pretty good like that, keeping Neal right where he wanted him.

(Not out loud. Not that Neal asked -- or, well, he did ask, but he was already drifting off and they both knew he didn't really need an answer. Just, in Peter's head, he'd admit that much.)

\---

Peter spent most of Saturday morning outside, cleaning the patio furniture and doing the requested weeding. Neal spent most of it inside, winnowing down the new case files to a few Peter might find interesting and occasionally leaning out the back door to touch base. He didn't seem to have any reason to come outside -- he'd just lean out, give Peter a smile, maybe let Satchmo out (or in) and go back into the air conditioning.

"Hey, are you coming in for lunch?" Neal asked, eventually. Peter checked his watch -- almost half past noon, and most of the work was done. He could hit the rest tomorrow -- there was a Yankees game on at one. Time for a shower and a bite before then.

The hot water made him realize just how sore he was. He used to be able to put in a full day's work landscaping, one of his side jobs in college, but scrubbing the chairs had taken its toll. Well, no matter, he was planning to sit on the sofa for the rest of the afternoon anyway. He made himself a hasty sandwich, ate it in the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and dropped down on the sofa next to Neal, flicking the TV over from some mindless documentary to the ball game. Neal looked up from the file he was reading, then went back to it, settling up against Peter's shoulder with a satisfied noise.

Bliss.

It lasted about twenty minutes.

Peter ignored Neal's restlessness at first, because he assumed it was just Neal's usual passive-aggressive impatience with sports. Then Neal set the folder aside and rested his head on Peter's shoulder and _seemed_ to watch the game, though he was still fidgety. Then he started kissing Peter's ear.

"Hey, come on," Peter said, shrugging him off. "The game's on."

"Baseball, orgasm," Neal said, making a weighing motion.

"Believe it or not, right now? Baseball," Peter replied, tapping one of Neal's hands. "We can have sex anytime. The Yankees play the Cubs three times a year. Besides, I'm tired."

Neal pulled his hand away and slid it up Peter's thigh, cupping his half-hard dick.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Autonomic reaction to kissing you."

Neal kissed him again.

"Neal!"

"You're turned on," Neal said. "I want to. We make it quick, you'll be back in time for intermission."

"Baseball doesn't have intermission."

"Halftime?" Neal tried.

"Did you grow up on Mars?" Peter asked.

"Baseball is boring. _You're_ interesting," Neal told him. "And you smell good. You'd rather watch the game than make out?"

"Today? Yeah," Peter said, even as he arched up a little into Neal's touch.

Neal raised an eyebrow.

"I could be convinced," Peter admitted. Neal gave him a smile, but then pulled back when Peter leaned over to kiss him again. "What?"

"Okay, keep an open mind," Neal said.

"Fastest way to make me say _no_ ," Peter reminded him.

"Just -- trust me, this'll make us both really happy," Neal replied, and nuzzled at Peter's cheek -- well, more pushed, until Peter got the hint and turned back to the game. Neal kissed his throat, biting a little (Neal liked teeth, had nice teeth, was very careful with his teeth) while he undid the fly of Peter's jeans and pushed his underwear down enough to get his dick out. Peter turned and ducked his head to catch Neal's kiss, giving up the ball game as a lost cause with only a small pang of regret, but Neal pulled back again and slid off the couch.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked, as Neal pushed his knees apart, shuffling forward to rest his cheek against Peter's thigh. Neal gave him an _isn't it obvious?_ look, and before Peter could react, he'd sucked the head of his dick into his mouth _right there in the living room, with the ball game on_.

Peter grunted and tried to keep his cool, because Neal was really good at that. After a couple of seconds, he managed it. "We could go -- "

Neal pulled back, licking his lips. "Peter."

"Isn't this..."

"Kinky?" Neal repeated.

"Weird," Peter suggested. It had to be weird. Neal rolled his eyes.

"Who's judging?" he asked. "We're the only ones here. Weird isn't important, anyway."

"It is to me," Peter said defensively.

"Did you like it?" Neal asked. He looked like he was really curious, like the idea of someone _not_ liking a blowjob from him was an alien concept.

"Well, yeah, of course," Peter answered.

"And I like it. We both like it."

"Yeah, but...why?" Peter asked.

Neal settled back on his heels, folding his arms on Peter's leg, resting his chin on them. "I like belonging. I like belonging _to you_. I like that I don't have to think, that I can trust you. I believe it, but occasionally I'd like evidence of that. This gets me off, Peter. You don't have to enjoy tying me up and we don't have to do that, but you're not allowed to tell me I don't like something I do. And you _don't have to understand it_ ," he added, when Peter opened his mouth to ask again. "I stopped asking why a long time ago. I want to be here, on my knees, giving you head while you watch the game. If you don't have a problem with that, don't invent one for me to have. If _you_ don't like it, tell me and I'll stop."

Peter swallowed, uncertain how to respond to the weird combination of psychology and dirty talk Neal had just uttered. After a moment, Neal moved forward again.

"Just watch the game," he said. "And say yes or no."

"Yes," Peter managed.

"Watch the game," Neal insisted. Peter managed to drag his eyes up to the television.

Burnett was on the mound, three and two with a man on second _Neal's wet mouth, God he's good at that_ pop fly to center field, Granderson had it, third out, _Jesus Christ his tongue_. Top of the second, Yankees at bat --

Peter glanced down at Neal during the changeover and saw his eyes closed, head moving slowly, working his way down Peter's cock. It always took a while for Neal to get warmed up, but the look on his face and the tightness of his fingers in Peter's jeans weren't lies. He liked it, which was the strangest thing. But it felt good for Peter, too.

Good and the best kind of wrong, the kind where it wasn't actually illegal but it sure as hell felt like it, watching a baseball game while his boyfriend sucked him off. His boyfriend who wanted to belong to him, to be _owned_ by him and wanted Peter to prove he owned him.

He slid a hand up his thigh to cover Neal's, and Neal hesitated; Peter lifted his other hand quickly and rested it on Neal's head, holding him in place. There was a second where he thought Neal might give him another lecture, but instead Neal arched into the contact and --

 _Teixeira, number 25, up to the plate..._

It was difficult to divide his attention between the game and Neal's mouth, at first. Eventually he relaxed, stroked Neal's hair and watched Doug Davis try to strike out the Yankees. The Cubs weren't having a great year.

Neal just kept suckling, easy like he had nowhere else in the world to be and nothing he'd rather be doing, arching into Peter's hand every time he absently stroked his hair, moaning a little too. If Peter got close -- if his hips bucked, or he groaned out loud (" _Neal!_ ") Neal would back off, lips just barely tightened around the head of his cock, corners of his mouth turned up in a smile, tongue working against his skin. Peter stroked his hair and gently fucked his mouth and watched the umpire call a totally wrong strike on a pitch that was clearly miles away from the plate.

Bottom of the third -- no, three outs, top of the fourth. Peter glanced down again during the changeover.

"Even you -- _fuck,_ Neal -- stop for a minute so I can _think_ \-- thank you -- even you can't give a three hour blow job," Peter said, rubbing Neal's cheek with his thumb.

" _Three hours?_ " Neal asked.

"It's a baseball game, not the five minute mile," Peter said. Neal glanced over his shoulder at the TV.

"Is anything interesting happening right now?" he asked.

"Changeover," Peter said, and then clarified, "No."

Neal nodded and climbed into Peter's lap before he could protest, kissing him, one hand braced on his shoulder and the other slinking between them to undo his own fly, grab their cocks and rub them together. Neal's fingers were almost as good as his mouth. Peter grunted, bucking up into it, oddly pleased that Neal didn't want to distract him during the actual game.

He was close -- had been for a while, Neal's teasing notwithstanding -- but Neal...wow, he really did get off on this. Neal was almost frantic, jerking against him, face buried against the side of his throat, moaning. "Peter -- _Peter_ \-- "

Peter lifted a hand and ran it through Neal's hair, slowly, and that did it. Neal's whole body tensed and he came with an almost desperate shudder, a bite to Peter's throat that put him over, too.

Well, they had really genuinely _ruined_ Peter's shirt.

Neal eased off him after a minute, laughing self-consciously as Peter stripped off his shirt and offered it to him to clean up with. They'd only missed a single at-bat; the Yankees had a man on first, no outs.

Peter, still reeling a little, tipped his head back and just listened to the announcer for a while.

"See, I knew under that FBI exterior there'd be a kinky sports fan," Neal said. Peter covered his face with one hand. "Come on, don't tell me that wasn't great."

"Fine, but you're the one who gets to tell El about it," Peter said.

"Pleasure's all mine. Next time she can watch. She likes the Giants, right?"

"That's football."

"And?"

"Won't be in season for another three months."

Neal slid up against him on the sofa again, affectionate and sleepy as he usually was after sex. "Wake me up if anything important happens."

Peter put an arm around his shoulders, hand rising to tangle in his hair. "You want to watch the game again tomorrow? Third game in the series..."

Neal laughed, already half-gone. "Knew you'd enjoy it," he mumbled.

Two outs, bases loaded, Posada up with 0 and 2. Posada was having a really terrible year, Peter thought idly, but there was always a chance --

 _Fly ball, high and fast, it looks like --_

"Go! Go!"

 _\-- into the stands for a home run! And that'll put the Yankees up six to two early in the game._

"Yes!" Peter lifted his free arm. Neal grumbled in his sleep, and Peter settled down, watching the Yankees run the bases.

 _Stay tuned for more from the Friendly Confines after this break from our sponsors..._

\---

So it wasn't something he really asked for, ever. Not directly, anyway.

But Neal knew what he meant when he asked if Neal wanted to catch a game, and it...it worked for them, Peter guessed. Even if he couldn't really talk about it and Neal couldn't really explain it.

Made the World Series a lot more exciting for both of them, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme, [prompt](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/1682.html?thread=2868882#t2868882): Neal between Peter's legs suckling his cock while Peter absently pets his hair and watches the game. Prettied up and posted here.


End file.
